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I wade streams amid mountains of green;
capture glints of rainbow and dark spotted trout.
Walk slippery rocks; pick up a blinking pebble;
wish for a clump of gold or a shiny diamond.
Find a worn down nugget shaped by water.
a reward to cherish and keep as a treasure.
I wonder how long it’s rolled in the gushing…
maybe Indians fished in the sparkling stream,
searched for a meal for their families and friends.
Did they attain an idea of warrior paint from trout?
The beauty of their hues resemble each other,
paints on a canvas, depicting bright colors.
I slip, causes me to catch my breath for a second,
left toiling to grip a stump or slimy rocks.
A limb in the water looks like a water moccasin…
some of them are dangerous, I don’t want bitten.
Colors of green moss against earth’s dark edge,
a slight railing marking the rivers territory.
Tadpoles play tag along boundaries of the stream,
a toad sits in a hole in a tree trunk, a moistened place.
A mink’s fur displays rich dark brown tinges;
years ago it wouldn’t survive long in this river…
an expression on its face parades it’s free from harm;
a fisherman interested only in catching a trout.
Ah, the love of mountain streams and crooked creeks,
an education for nature buffs and wildlife enthusiasts’…
soothes hearts and souls of mankind granting energy,
enthusiasm, thankfulness and grateful thoughts.
Ah, the love of mountain streams and crooked creeks,
awakens the eye and the mind to the environment.
Barbara Kasey Smith, writer – Copyright 2012 – Use by Permission Only
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